


So Damn Lucky

by wordswordswords7



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anesthesia, Banter, Best Friends Stevie Budd & David Rose, Car Accidents, Hospitalization, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Reconciliation, Stevie Budd is a Troll, Stevie Budd/Jake Mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:35:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27429553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswordswords7/pseuds/wordswordswords7
Summary: Stevie's quarter-life crisis of a car is really no match for family-sized SUVs that decide to barrel through country road stop signs. Which really puts a damper on their whole "Go to the spa to forget about Patrick" plan.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Comments: 11
Kudos: 179





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

The world spins like a whirling top, metal screeching in David’s ears alongside the sound of a long-drawn-out involuntary gasp. He can’t tell if it’s coming from himself or Stevie, who is white-knuckling the steering wheel and squeezing her eyes shut. They’re suspended in midair, glass and gravel blurring his vision. 

The impact of the car hitting the road is almost as jarring as the bone-shuddering _smack_ of the SUV blindsiding them a split second earlier. What follows is a strange silence, punctuated only by the dull roar of blood rushing in David’s ears. When he opens his eyes, the world looks _wrong_ and it takes a little too long for him to realize that the car, with them inside of it, is upside down. His head is brushing against the ceiling—which hadn’t been possible when he’d gotten into Stevie’s third-hand rust bucket just thirty minutes ago—and his airbag is sticky against his face with the coppery smell of blood.

“Stevie…”

David painfully turns his head. His best friend is slumped motionless beside him, held up in place by her seatbelt, her dark hair hanging like a curtain.

“Stevie?”

She doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Oh god, are you guys okay? Buddy are you okay?”

The words seem to swim haltingly through his brain, as he blearily looks past Stevie at a stranger kneeling beside her window. He’s holding a phone to his ear and he’s got a cut on his forehead.

“You’re bleeding,” is the only response that surfaces through the melee of David’s confusion.

“An ambulance is coming, just– just don’t move or anything.”

The direction _not_ to move seems to spur David out of inaction and he tries to reach up— _down?_ —with his right hand to find the source of his own bleeding. Only, his arm isn’t working. In retrospect, he shouldn’t have looked to where it was resting above him against the top of the car. He should have closed his eyes and tried to pretend the whole damn arm didn’t exist (his usual tactic for dealing with injuries of any size), but he didn’t and so now he knows what his _bones look like_. 

Bones are bad. Throwing up while you’re upside down is a close second.

At least he gets to pass out after that.

Barrelling back into consciousness however is less than pleasant, but it’s almost worth it to hear Stevie’s voice.

“Where is that asshole?! I’m gonna kill him!”

“Ma’am, please I have to ask you to lay still.”

“He fucking _totalled_ my car, he fucking– David? Oh my god, David. Are you...is he gonna be alright?”

“Get him Stevie, kick his ass,” David manages to groan through gritted teeth before a firefighter and paramedic slide him out of the wreck. 

The world spins violently, and he has to try very hard not to puke again. The fact that he’s not fussing over the vomit from earlier (it’s in his hair and that’s just not okay) is a sign that maybe David is not _alright_. That, and the fact that his body is silently screaming at these guys to stop moving him but his mouth can’t seem to form any other words beyond _holy fuck_ and _oh my god._

Eventually though, the pain is too much for him and David slips back out of consciousness to the dulcet tones of Stevie swearing up her own storm.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

“I would like the good drugs now, please.”

Stevie grimaces along with him, which looks painful in its own right what with her black eye and split lip. She’s cradling a splinted wrist in her lap, and he can see the stiffness of her set shoulders. Sitting between them, Amber, his nurse just smiles and steadily continues to suture the cut above his eyebrow.

They were both very lucky, they’ve been told. David would like to have words with whoever decides what lucky feels like.

“Just you wait till you meet the anesthesiologist,” Amber reassures him with a small wink. “We’ll prep you for surgery and he’ll give you the best drugs we’ve got. You’ll feel a lot better once we’ve set this bone.”

By setting the bone, she means putting him under so that a doctor can put his arm back together with metal rods. _Permanent_ metal rods. He swallows a new wave of panic.

“I called Alexis,” Stevie says from her stool beside his narrow bed, trying to distract him. “She’s gonna come and she said she’d try to keep your parents at the motel.”

“Thank god for that,” he mutters. He might just pass out from the pain before the anesthesiologist gets a chance to knock him out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stevie wince.

“How are you feeling? I’d say you look pale, but if I’m being honest you always sort of have the complexion of a Victorian scullery maid who may not survive the winter.”

“Wow,” Stevie catches Amber's eye and gestures at David as if to say, _Do you see what I have to put up with?_ David thinks he sees the nurse bite back a grin. “First of all, your black Hermes rollneck tunic looks better on me with my _complexion_ , and you know it.”

David gasps, scandalized.

“Also, don’t freak out but…” she hesitates, grimacing but barrels forward, “after I called Alexis, I might have called Patrick too.”

“ _What_?”

“I _know_ , but I didn’t want him to hear it from someone else. What if your _mom_ got to him first? He was a wreck, David.”

It’s been a few days since Rachel threw a wrench into their lives, and he hasn’t spoken to Patrick beyond a brisk text telling him he was taking some time off from the store. He hadn’t been feeling too forgiving when they’d set out for the Elmdale spa this morning, but he doesn’t like to think of Patrick worrying over this. It’s not like David is _dying_ , even if his body feels like he is. He’s covered in cuts and bruises, he and Stevie have matching concussions, and the whole bones-outside-of-his-body situation is still a very real thing—a thing that he refuses to look at even though the ER staff have been keeping it covered. But he’s not _dying_.

David takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. They did almost die though... _could_ have died. He pushes back the memory of Stevie hanging upside down and unresponsive beside him before it can become overwhelming. They really had been so damn lucky.

She’s right anyway, hearing the news of their car wreck from Moira would be rife with speculation and overdramatization. Not that getting hit by a family size sedan and being flipped around in a metal death box, like some kind of carnie tilt-a-whirl nightmare, isn’t an eyebrow-raiser. And David is sure he would be throwing a very incoherent fit if the dizzy spells would just pass and pain wasn’t radiating from every inch of his body—especially his arm. No, for now they’re alive and David would prefer to focus on the living and breathing side of things. He would also prefer if Patrick wasn’t killing himself over it. 

Which is a little surprising because Past-David would have begged for any scrap of concern he could get from any one of his partners. And honestly, Present-David wouldn’t say no to a little hand-holding, he just doesn’t want to have to see the worry on Patrick’s sweet, perpetually endearing face.

And then there’s the hair thing.

“He can’t come here,” he says to Stevie, suddenly frantic. “He can’t see me looking like this with...with _vom-hair_. _You_ shouldn’t be seeing me with vom-hair. Oh _my_ god, Alexis especially can’t.”

He blinks rapidly and tries to hold back tears. Suddenly, it’s the only thing he can think about and it’s disgusting—has him feeling borderline unhinged, even. His eyes dart to the nurse but she seems wholly unperturbed by his appearance.

“That goes for you too,” he adds weakly.

She smiles kindly. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you cleaned up. One crisis at a time.”


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

The surgery must have happened, because when David wakes up he feels nothing and it’s glorious. It’s the kind of nebulous nothing that leaves you feeling like you’re floating through molasses. Or on clouds of cotton candy.

Or pizza.

“Pizza.”

Did he just say that out loud?

“David? _Hey_.”

David slowly turns his head to look at Patrick who’s leaning forward in a chair beside his bed. He can feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Patrick’s here.”

“Of course I’m here, David.”

There’s a small wrinkle of worry creased between his faint eyebrows and David reaches up with the fingers of his left hand to smooth it away. Maybe he just ends up pushing weakly at Patrick’s whole face, but who’s to say?

Patrick leans into his hand, making David scrutinize him through narrowed eyes. “I’m mad at you.”

“I know you are.”

“And I want pizza.”

Patrick chuckles with a teary sniff, “Yeah, I think that’s the morphine talking.”

David looks down at his right arm in its sling, splinted and swathed in bandages, and wiggles his fingers. It’s probably good that he can do that.

“How are you feeling?” Patrick asks tenderly.

“I think the doctors here got me high,” David answers suspiciously.

“I’ve heard they’ve been known to do that.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” David insists, feeling tired all over again but also mad at...someone? Thinking thoughts is very hard at the moment.

Patrick looks hurt, but that doesn’t make sense. 

“I know, I’m sorry. But when Stevie called me, I just panicked and drove straight here. I had to make sure you were okay, David. I couldn’t handle the thought of you being here, hurt and...and without me. I was just _so_ scared at the thought of losing you.”

That was probably an important thing for David to listen to, but he stops hearing Patrick after _Stevie called me_. Stevie, that spooky little b...

“Oh my god, you can’t be here.”

Patrick looks like a kicked puppy. "Oh."

“I told Stevie. I _told_ her you can’t see my hair.”

The pained look on Patrick’s face very subtly shifts to one of blunt confusion. “I...what?”

David lets out an exasperated hum before grabbing a fistful of Patrick’s shirt and pulling him in close. 

“I threw up in my hair,” he thinks he’s whispering but there’s a very real chance that he’s not. “There is _throw-up._ In. My. Hair. And now you know, and we’ll have to break up and sell the store. And I’ll have to leave town, and...and move to…” he flounders for a worse prospect than Schitt’s Creek, “ _Saskatchewan_ or something.”

Patrick laughs but quickly reschools his face to a sombor expression when David snatches his hand away, scandalized. “There’s nothing in your hair, David. It’s just fine. We don’t have to break up or sell the store. You don’t need to move to Saskatchewan.”

Now he really is feeling tired, and it’s getting hard to stay awake.

“Alexis can _never_ know.”

“Cross my heart.”


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

When David wakes again, feeling less loopy and more swamp-mouthed, he tries to get his bearings. Everything is one big thrumming ache, meaning he’s on pain medication but could probably stand to be on more. His right arm is bandaged and pressed against his chest in a sling, meaning surgery happened.

The last thing he remembers is a balding man behind a Mickey Mouse surgical mask—which did _not_ inspire confidence—counting down the fingers of one hand while David counted backwards out loud from thirty. The anesthesiologist, he presumes.

There’s movement across the room, and David looks up to see Patrick hovering in the doorway.

“You’re awake.”

“Patrick,” David’s hand immediately goes to his hair and he sees Patrick barely contain a smirk. “Why are you...uh, what are you doing here?”

The smirk fades and he slowly comes into the room, clearly unsure of how he’s going to be received.

“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing the chair beside David’s bed.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Of course.”

“Stevie called yesterday and told me what happened. I’m sorry, but I had to come make sure you were going to be okay.”

David narrows his eyes. “Yesterday? How long have I been out?”

He knows he should be focused on the fact that Patrick had rushed to his bedside and how that’s incredibly flattering and is doing things to his stomach. But that could easily be the concussion talking, and also _when did surgery happen???_

“It’s 10AM, Tuesday,” Patrick clarifies gently. “You slept all night. You woke up for a bit after your surgery though—you don’t remember?”

David tries to dig up something, anything, but his head aches so he just shrugs.

An awkward silence stretches out between them after that and David knows what he wants, but can’t seem to say it.

He wants Patrick.

Seeing him sitting here looking miserable, after David’s been pulled broken and bleeding from Stevie’s crushed tin can of a car, makes the whole Rachel situation feel small. It puts things into perspective, and now it’s clear that the bigger thing worth holding onto is this bizarrely marvelous connection they have. Not the uncomfortable truths tucked away in Patrick’s past, and not the ones in David’s former life either. 

What they have feels big. Bigger than anything David has ever experienced, and he doesn’t need Stevie to tell him he’d be an idiot to let go of it. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him how lucky he is to have filed his business application with Patrick and not Ray that day. So damn lucky.

David is trying to find a way to say all this, when suddenly Patrick is standing.

“I’m sorry, I should leave. I haven’t been respecting your space…I should–”

He moves to go but David reaches out to grab his hand.

“Ah, _fuck_.”

Right, abrupt movements are not smart or fun.

“David are you okay?”

“Mmm...mhmm. Yep. Ow,” he breathes out through his nose for a second, holding Patrick’s hand fast in case he tries to bolt again. “Could you...Patrick, I’d really like it if you could, um, stay.”

Patrick’s whole body seems to relax and in a small, hopeful voice he asks, “Really?”

“Please.”


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

“Alexis made me sleep in your bed.”

Stevie sounds violated just saying it. 

“You’ve never slept on bedding so soft,” David counters, offended. 

It’s been two days since the accident and they’re alone in his hospital room. Her face is still a mess, and they’ve stopped giving him the _really_ good drugs which is just rude. So for now he’s laying very still while Stevie sits cross legged in the chair she’s pulled right up to the bed. She taps a metallic Sharpie against her chin, debating on what to add to his new (black) cast.

She gets to write _one_ thing and he’s already regretting it.

“I guess it’s nice to know someone cares,” Stevie concedes dryly. “I just don’t understand why she couldn’t care at _my_ apartment.”

After ensuring David had gotten out of surgery safely and had Patrick for company, apparently his sister had taken Stevie’s concussion homecare _very_ seriously and had forced her to stay at the motel for the night so someone could be there to wake her as instructed.

“Yeah, well, if you think for one minute that Alexis was going to sleep on that curbside loveseat situation you’ve got going on, you hit your head a lot harder than I thought.”

“That couch was almost new when I found it.”

“No really, we should alert the doctors. I’ve got a call button right here, I could just–”

Stevie rolls her eyes and smirks.

“I’m glad someone was looking out for you, by the way,” he says without any snark, but because he’s David and she’s Stevie he adds, “Also, if Alexis was still dating Ted, you’d have been waking up to my dad every two hours instead, so count yourself very lucky.”

They both make faces at that.

“So, where’s Patrick?” she asks, feigning disinterest. “I figured he’d still be here, haunting your sickbed like a moon-eyed Florence Nightingale.”

David can’t help the tight-lipped smile that tugs his mouth to one side. 

“Yes, well he _was_ here but I made him go home last night. For one thing he needed to open the store this morning,” and then as an afterthought, “and also he _really_ needed to shave. I do not do razor burn.”

She snorts, eyeing the two-day old growth on his own face. “So I take it you two are back to being annoying and _perfect_.”

She says it like it’s disgusting, but her eyes are dancing with laughter. Seeming to make a decision she motions for him to give her his casted arm. 

“ _Yes_ ,” David raises his eyebrows and gives her his loftiest look before gingerly moving the arm closer to her and shutting his eyes in discomfort. “It just seemed like a stupid thing to stay mad about after being confronted with my _mortality_ , if you must know.” David grimaces, “Plus, he was here while I was coming off of anesthesia and if I left him who knows what video evidence he might be holding onto…”

Stevie sounds genuinely distraught, “I still can’t believe I missed that. Apparently you were _very_ chatty.”

“I will toss you off a bridge. You’re small, I could do it.”

“Promise?”

“You have to be nice to me,” he reminds her, opening his eyes again. “Patrick is taking me home tonight, and if you don’t zip it, we’ll leave you in Elmdale.”

Without a car, and with clear instructions not to drive until her follow-up assessment, Stevie had wheedled a ride to the hospital from Jake on the assumption that she could get a ride back to town with David and Patrick.

“Or does Pony want to walk?”

“Those are strong words coming from a walking billboard for offensive bathroom accessories,” she deadpans.

“What?!” he hisses.

He looks down at his cast and then back at Stevie, mouth agape and eyebrows sky high. She mirrors his expression in mock horror, hand to heart.

“ _No._ ”

“Yes, David.”

_Rose Apothecary_

_Toilet plungers 50% off_

It’s written with a silver flourish and accompanied by a (surprisingly good) doodle of the store’s logo.

“I will _fucking_ _kill_ you.”


End file.
